


Pink Elephants

by kyla45



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyla45/pseuds/kyla45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John realizes something rather important and tries to substitute pink elephants in place of the Rather Important Something. Thinking about pink elephants, as it turns outs, proves to be quite ineffective. Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink Elephants

He caught himself stupidly content (soft smile and all, not exactly peaceful but exhilarated somehow) and it was a Monday. Nothing good ever happened on a Monday.

A little bemused, he tried to figure out exactly what had caused this unassuming bliss.

By the time he‘d eliminated all probable causes (Sherlock would be proud), the answer, which should maybe have been a little more obvious, caused a doubt and confusion to trickle thickly in his mind, a sensation that was surreal. This wouldn‘t-- _do_ and then panic tackled him in a way it hadn’t done since he’d first come back to England.

Because who in their right mind could say a quiet day in with Sherlock Holmes made them warm inside? And there was no quiet day in, not really, because a day in meant he was moody and restless and prone to being extraordinarily insulting and--

Damn.

“What?” Sherlock looked up from his experiment, eyes sharp.

John realized he must have sworn out loud, but then reconsidered. He’d probably been thinking too loudly.

“Nothing, nothing. Just thinking.”

“Obviously. About what?”

Irritated, he replied snappishly, “Why don’t you tell me?”

Sherlock gave him one of his soul-searing looks, calculating and analytical, the sort of attention John had never quite gotten used to, and oddly enough, he imagined that for once, that all-seeing gaze did not give Sherlock the answer he was searching for. So it was with a clipped “I‘ve more important things to do” that he was dismissed.

Horrified at himself (it was difficult to think he‘d actually put Sherlock off a challenge or chance to show off), John mopped a hand over his face, and stood up suddenly, announcing to the room, as Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him, that he was going for a walk.

His walk turned into a trek, his trek into an extensional journey, and even when his leg started to ache, he refused to turn back. His heart hammered annoyingly at his rib cage, like a persistent knock at the door when you really didn’t want to get up and answer it; and he knew the erratic beat had little to do with exertion.

It was hard not to think about it, now that he’d realized, it was hard to erase the revelation, harder still to contradict the knowledge. Because it was so true, wasn’t it--

Pink elephants, he hissed under his breath, think of those instead. Pink elephants were big and thought consuming -- that’s _stupid_ , why in God’s name -- a pink elephant for Christ’s sake -- but yes, pink elephants, pink bloody elephants --

He tried not to shout profanities into the air when, instead of pink elephants, a set of pink lips came to the forefront of his mind instead, accompanied by a face: high cheekbones and glistening eyes and--

And this image wasn‘t even indecent, he might’ve been so lucky! It was infinitely more damnable and a thousand times more troubling. Not as easy to dismiss as base.

That crazy bone structure set off some disastrous chain reaction and he could only think in terms of feelings -- was it even possible to _think_ feelings?-- a medley of words backed with all the meaning in the universe, drifting in and out of sharp focus:

Protect -- exasperation, clinical worry, eat more, eat _this_ , look I cooked, for God’s sake we’re going out, you’re too pale. And then I’m locking you here to sleep, murderers be damned to roam free for a day, I’m serious Sherlock -- I’ll force you to watch all the _Lord of the Rings_ in a row! Smirk in victory when he concedes and appreciate that he doesn’t grumble as much now anymore, when you look after him.

Protect, _protect_ \-- clean a wound marring that damnable skin atop that damnable cheekbone, deeper than it had any right to be. That was careless of you, there is anger, irrational hatred towards a nameless thug accomplice, but you _should’ve_ seen that oaf coming -- and maybe, maybe the small wounds set you off because of the fear, the absolutely terrifying, oxygen stealing, paralytic fear that one day you would be too late, too unobservant, too slow, and the wound Sherlock received because of your failure to protect would be the type he doesn‘t recover from.

Protect, protect, no matter what, single-minded, at all costs, in any way, in _every_ way -- John Watson, you are a soldier, a doctor, this is what you _do_ and God knows Sherlock doesn’t look after himself. Shield and glare, silent shadow, faithful companion and you don’t mind, you don’t mind being the one person that connects Sherlock to the outside world, even if it’s not always easy. And oh the smiles, tentative on both your behalves until it was a reflex reaction, the laughs, the childish giggling to spite the world, as if it was just the two of you against everyone; no one joined in when you laughed, it was yours and his, and you honest to God puffed up with pride because of it -- because you could make Sherlock Holmes laugh. Now you don’t correct him when he says ‘friend.’ And then comes the fondness, unbearably, sickeningly fond, and when did you become so at ease, so contented, when did he become life, home, _everything_ \--

The barrage assaulted him without end until he stopped stiffly in front of a sandwich deli.

It was with the smell of pepperoni in the air, the sky an unremarkable color, grey overpowering the blue, people huffing sharply at the way he just _stood_ there, in the way, it was there that he could run from the knowledge no longer.

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

In love. As in, _in love_.

The panic would have returned and swallowed him whole if his phone hadn’t buzzed in his pocket, his instincts putting the now on hold, honing in on focus, blocking out the excess, and he grabbed it with steady hands -- no one could really blame him for reacting so powerfully to a text message when the content of Sherlock’s varied from amusing, disgusting, annoying and worrying, in degrees.

But John was always ready to turn around and _sprint_ if he had to, was conditioned to react to the specific tone that signaled a text from Sherlock, especially after they’d developed a code, a distress message he could send if he needed (many a date had gone awry because of his apparent ‘devotion’ to his phone, the way he put the damn thing ‘first,’ and even if some of them never voiced why they were so cross, their eyes always seemed to accusingly scream ‘it’s _him_ isn’t it’ -- flat mate, friend, _boyfriend_ ).

Surprisingly though, Sherlock had not yet used the code as a false alarm to get John to come quickly for something mundane, and for that he was grateful.

This time, there was no code, though.

 _Come back. I need you. S_

No code at all.

John took the stairs in Baker Street a bit briskly all the same, “Sherlock?”

“In here.”

And the genius was sitting on the couch, long legs pulled against his chest, looking very much at ease, still in his silk dressing gown.

“I’ve decided,” he began.

John shrugged off his jacket, prompting him, “Yes?”

“I want that spiced chicken tonight.”

Expressing desire for food was rare. John didn’t even blink at the easy way Sherlock assumed he would get it for him, because, well. Of course he would.

“Mm, rice or noodles.”

“Rice.”

He nodded, calling for delivery, adding his own order.

“John?”

All of a sudden, in this huge, horrible rush, John remembered that he was in love with this man. Bad timing, really.

“Yea?”

“Come here.”

And John was used to stranger requests -- so he walked forward and sunk into the couch next to Sherlock without thinking.

He turned on the telly to the channel he knew Sherlock had the most fun yelling at. “So what did you need me for, anyway?” he asked absent mindedly. Somehow, instinctively, he knew the Chinese food hadn’t been the reason.

Sherlock didn’t answer and when John turned to him, he was just staring at the TV. Resolutely, giving no verbal response, a silence that somehow spoke more than words.

As seemed to be the running theme today, John felt another spontaneous ball of concentrated emotion punch him in the gut.

He was really actually quite okay with loving this man.

“I am glad I met you, Sherlock Holmes,” and it’s achingly sincere, a little over emotional, not weepy or soft the way it is in movies, but he knows Sherlock does not do sentiment well all the same.

This time Sherlock does look at him, nodding severely.

“If you were hoping for a similar declaration where I use your full name, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint on that front.”

“Silly of me.”

“Very.”

John starts laughing, something very, very warm filling him up when Sherlock tries, but fails to hold back his own laughter.

He has never been so happy, never been so very content with the unknown future stretching out in front of him.

But oh, it looked promising.

And even a little more than promising when Sherlock leans into him, the need superfluous, a little awkward because of his height, but he does it all the same, and a lesser man may have even called it cuddling.

And so they waited for their food, each of them unconsciously rearranging for maximum comfort, like it was a given, like there was nothing amiss about the spontaneous violation of personal space.

John relaxes into the warmth and feel of Sherlock, soft smile and all, not exactly peaceful, but exhilarated somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> Um, first story here. Fluff because The Fall hurt my heart. Incidentally, first Sherlock work, too. Feel free to comment and suggest, darlings.


End file.
